Pick up the pieces
by Lyra Silvertongue2
Summary: W-I-P. Seventh year. HermioneDraco. Hermione suddenly finds herself without friends, and avoided by most, while Draco is having trouble coping. WARNING: ANGST. Chapter nine: resolution to that cliffie, and getting ready for Halloween.
1. Missed

Disclaimer: If I owned this, one of the following two things would happen to the storyline: 1) It would be overwhelmed with extremely dry and subtle humor, or 2) a giant wave of angst would come crashing over it.   
  
Key:  
  
*these two stars around a word mean emphasis*  
  
_underscores mean thoughts, or simply italics_  
  
[a number here tells you to go take a look at the bottom of the chapter]  
  
A/N: This is my first _Harry Potter_ fanfiction. Yes, I realize that the title of the book is the name of the character that barely makes an appearance in this story, but you know what? Too bad. Hee-hee-hee...  
  
Anywho, I recently grew fascinated with the Hermione/Draco pairing, especially with all the things people have come up with for making it plausible, and BOOM! suddenly there was this idea for a tremendously angsty fanfiction, and, well, here I am. But what I find odd is that I have never before written an extremely angsty fanfiction, and I'm a bit surprised that my muse has presented me with this idea. Ah, well.   
  
Now, without further adoo-doo, the first chapter of _Pick up the pieces_...  
  
*********  
  
Late summer, seventh year  
  
*********  
  
It was with a start, in the middle of a rather confusing conversation with her parents, that Hermione realized she was going to be lonely this year at Hogwarts.  
  
Seventh year, she had heard, was never easy, but ever since third year she had depended on the fact that she was going to have *friends.*   
  
And it was only just now occurring to her that she didn't have those any more.  
  
Her sixth year had been her most frightening and heart-rending yet. With everyone caught up in the war against Voldemort, there was no time for school, no matter how much she wanted there to be. Oh, the first month had gone all right, with Hermione doing well in her studies, Ron obsessing over Quidditch, and Harry worrying about his friends in the war but then, in one day, everything had been shot to hell.  
  
She still remembered quite clearly what she had been doing: writing out the technique used for turning a mushroom into a barstool, while Ron played exploding snap on the carpet next to her chair with Dean Thomas. She had looked up to see the fire before her, and was quite suddenly confronted with Professor Dumbledore, looking grim. The trip to his office was short and confused, and then her memory skipped to the moment she was told the most shocking and grave news imaginable: Harry had been killed.  
  
Ron went completely berserk, smashing things around the office, shouting that he wouldn't believe it, he couldn't believe it--Hermione just sat in her seat, stunned, staring at the wall as if dead. Harry? Dead? But if he'd--Ron had been just about to pick up a glass instrument from a bookshelf near Fawkes' perch, making the phoenix squawk, when Hermione stood up and went over to him. As if in a trance, she'd said his name, took his arm from where it had frozen, and put it gently by his side.   
  
After that her memories got a bit hazy, but she knew that that was the day Voldemort had finally chosen to launch a full-scale attack. He'd started by infiltrating the Ministry, with a side contingent sent to Hogwarts. Suddenly schoolmates turned on each other. Hermione had been forced by her own morals to follow Ron into battle as he picked up the torch for Harry's sake.   
  
"For Harry's sake" was all she had heard for the following six months, as, time and again, she found herself by Ron's side, hoping to gain vengeance for Harry. And finally it was had. Voldemort fell, and with him, his evil collaborative. There'd been rejoicing in the streets.  
  
  
  
But it hadn't seemed enough for Ron, somehow. In the middle of a wild celebratory party, people hugging on all sides, weeping with joy...he'd sat with an unshakeable glower on his face. When she'd approached him and asked him what could possibly be wrong, she'd gotten a yell that had halted the festivities for the brief minute it took to shuffle an enraged Weasley out of the room.   
  
From there it had gotten steadily worse. Ron retreated farther and farther into himself, eventually speaking only to his father ("He says I'm the only one who understands," Mr. Weasley had reported sadly), and only in short, terse replies to his questioning. He didn't smile or laugh. He wouldn't even look at Hermione when she visited. Mrs. Weasley found herself unable to cope with the idea of sending him back to Hogwarts, since he responded bitterly, when spoken to by his father, "Too many memories."  
  
Hermione knew how he felt. She was dreading her return to Hogwarts, especially since her last close friend, Ginny, had been drafted as a trainee auror, having proved herself worthy during the war. Now the full impact of the fact that she was going to be alone hit her full force. Alone to face a Hogwarts without Harry or Ron. No pesky friends bothering her while she was studying. No one to cheer for a Quidditch games.  
  
All this came to her in a snap, and then she responded to her mother, hurt, "You do *remember* how I came back here, don't you?"  
  
  
  
"Yes," her father rumbled, pausing in his pacing for a few seconds to look her in the eye. "Two months early and unwilling to tell us anything except about some war--and you've yet to produce evidence that this war actually *happened.*"  
  
  
  
"You don't trust me enough to--"  
  
"We never see you anymore!" cried her father. "You go away all year, and then when you *do* come back, you say you can't tell us because we won't understand! Every year, Hermione! And you come back *changed* every year!"  
  
"We're missing it," said her mother quietly.  
  
"And don't think I didn't notice your teeth shrank, young lady," said her father intensely, holding out a scolding finger. "We expressly *forbid* you from shrinking them, and then you just--"  
  
"All right! You want to know what you've missed?! Huh?!"  
  
"Yes!" said Hermione's mother, quietly fervent.  
  
"My best friend's died, okay?!" Her voice was angry and laden with tears. "There's your proof of the war! My best friend's died, and my other best friend won't talk to me because of it!" She collected her arguments as she looked right through her stunned parents. "I work hard all year long, I pull perfect marks--because that's what you'd expect of me! I spent nearly every night in the library--Harry and Ron'd complain," she choked, "because I'd be too busy to spend time with them. And that's what got me *this,*" she seized the letter that had just arrived, pronouncing her Head Girl, which had prompted this entire discussion, "and you're going to scold me for--being too distant?!" She paused, taking a few deep, shuddering breaths, tears pouring down her cheeks unnoticed, and then her eyes flashed as she turned on her heel and ran up the stairs to her room.  
  
*********  
  
A half an hour later, Hermione found herself pacing through her room, gesturing furiously at the air in front of her. Her throat was exceptionally dry from crying, and she croaked as she spoke her quiet but vehement arguments. "They don't even *know* what I've suffered--what I've risked--" not that she could tell them, they'd be furious, "--what I've--ugh! and they decide to pick on me because I'm *Head* *Girl*!" The last two words she punctuated by two frenzied swipes at her bed, causing Crookshanks, the entirely-useless-ball-of-fur cat, to lift his head and blink muzzily at her before settling down into his nap again. "And to say that I shrunk my teeth--that wasn't even me *anyway,* it was that stupid, bloody--and it's *my* decision, not *yours,*" she growled. "*My* decision about how I look. *Mine.* I could go--change my hair right now, just 'cause it's mine!" she whirled on Crookshanks, who merely perked up his ears a little bit. Turning to her mirror, she snarled in disgust at her thick head of curly hair, trying to run her hands through the outer edges of it and failing miserably. "Stupid, ruddy--" she cut herself off; that word reminded her too much of Ron.   
  
Then an idea occurred to her, and she spun on Crookshanks again. "It's about time I changed it, anyway," she rationalized haughtily at the cat. Turning to the door, she took a deep breath, turned the knob, then stepped out into the hall, padded down the stairs, walked past the doorway to the kitchen, where her parents' murmuring could be heard, slipped on her shoes, opened the front door, and closed it quietly behind her.  
  
Blinking at the bright sunlight, Hermione set off down the sidewalk. Once she got into her pace, it was actually rather pleasant. A breath of fresh air, quite literally, from her stifling room where she was cramped in with her emotions. Out here she could almost forget them...almost. Taking her first left, she quickly approached her destination.   
  
The bell rang above her as she opened the door, and she quickly checked her pockets to see how much Muggle money she had left. A tiny nod to herself as she discovered about fifteen pounds.  
  
"Can I help you?"  
  
"Yes," Hermione told the salon-worker. "I'd like a haircut, please."  
  
*********  
  
Her parents weren't happy with her new haircut. When she'd walked back in the door with her straightened, shoulder-length hair, she'd spotted them on the couch, thrown a cool look at them as if daring them to say something, then marched back up the stairs to her room. For the rest of the evening a tense silence had filled the house.  
  
The same tense silence that filled the car now. "Mum," said Hermione quietly. Her mother didn't take her eyes off the road. "I'm sorry." Hermione looked up at her mother's eyes, still locked on the road in front of her, then went back to watching her clammy hands. There was no response, and after a long moment, she said quietly, "Please say something."  
  
"What do you want me to say?" Controlled anger.  
  
"Maybe that you forgive me?" asked Hermione plaintively.  
  
She sighed. "Dear, we--" she cut herself off as she pulled into a parking space. Turning to her daughter, she bit her bottom lip. "We just--miss you, is all. You're never around, and--and when you are, you go and--" she cut herself off again, gesturing feebly at Hermione's hair.  
  
"I know, mum. I'm sorry." Hermione wasn't sure if she was apologizing for her outburst, her hair, or the fact that she had grown so distant from her parents. "But...you never said what you think...do you like it?"  
  
The older woman cracked a smile, and Hermione gave her an answering one. "I like it. I like it a lot. You look very--grown up." They smiled at one another for a few more seconds, and then her mother clapped her hands on her knees and, opening the door, said, "Well, we'd better get you some school supplies, don't you think?"  
  
"Yeah," said Hermione, brightening.  
  
*********  
  
Things got a great deal more interesting when you were sharing them with people, Hermione remarked inwardly. When her father had arrived late at Diagon Alley, after running an errand, Hermione's mother excused herself to the bathroom for a few minutes, during which Hermione repeated her apology. He'd clapped her on the shoulder, and she'd ducked a third clap to give him a hug around the middle.   
  
Now she was giving her parents, for the first time, really, a walking tour of Diagon Alley, in between shopping for school supplies. Contrary to her prior beliefs, the adults were actually quite interested in what she was studying, and were a bit more prone to believe her about her studies, surrounded as they were every year by people doing magic. The only thing that put a damper on this moment was that the people who recognized her--even with the different hairstyle--tended to mutter a quiet "Hello" to her more cheerful "Hi." She wasn't quite sure why that was, but she knew she'd figure it out soon after she got back to school, and put a stop to it. People couldn't be shying away from the Head Girl, could they?  
  
"Wait, Hermione," called her father from behind her. "You haven't told us about this shop yet. You're a witch, you must ride a broomstick," he joked, as she came walking back. To his surprise, she took his arm gently, and tried to steer him away from the window, saying,  
  
"No, dad, I don't want to--Harry liked Quidditch, dad, I couldn't--" she stuttered, a lump forming in her throat.  
  
"Oh," he said softly, understandingly, patting her on the back. Her mother slipped an arm around her shoulders, and they walked towards the next store, about which her parents immediately started exclaiming.  
  
*********  
  
And then, quite suddenly, it was time to go back to school. Hermione surveyed the contents of her trunk, satisfied, before closing it firmly. Then she turned resolutely towards the basket with which she brought Crookshanks to and from school, and sighed heavily.  
  
"Dear, are you all packed?" came echoing up the stairs.  
  
"Just have to get Crookshanks!" she called.  
  
"That can wait, dear, come down a moment?" Shrugging, Hermione went down the stairs to find her mother holding out a gift-wrapped parcel.  
  
"For our Head Girl," said her father proudly as Hermione took the package, looking at her parents curiously.  
  
"Thanks," she said, smiling and tearing open the wrapping. When the brightly-colored paper fell away, she stared down at the gift, befuddled. "What--?"  
  
"We'd like you to write us, dear," said her mother, almost as if she were reciting a practiced speech. "We realized we really don't know anything about your life at school, and we'd like to hear about it. So we got you this," she indicated the stationary in her daughter's hands, "so you could write to us every week."  
  
Every week?  
  
"And use the regular old Muggle-post, so we can show you off at work, huh?" joked her father affectionately.  
  
Muggle-post? From Hogwarts?  
  
"Thank you, mum. Dad." Hermione decided that she didn't want to fight with her parents over something so trivial as a letter a week, so she acquiesced. Forcing a smile, she said, "I'll do that."   
  
"Well, go get Crookshanks, dear, you're going to be late!"  
  
"Yeah," she laughed, thinking it sounded a bit false. "He's probably hiding under the bed again."  
  
*********  
  
A/N: And there we go! The first chapter. I'll probably get the next one up by tomorrow, but I make no promises. No, wait, one promise: Draco will be in the next chapter. Yayyy! 


	2. Ignored

Disclaimer: If I owned the books, I'd be rich now.  
  
Key:  
  
*this stuff is emphasis*  
  
_this stuff is italics_  
  
[this stuff is numbers for footnotes]  
  
~this stuff is written in a letter or on a note~  
  
A/N: Thank you all you lovely people who reviewed! ::hugs all around::  
  
So here's the second chapter, as it wasn't promised. You know you're excited. I certainly am.  
  
*********  
  
_Last stop,_ thought Hermione bitterly, as she peered through the window into the train car. After trying nearly every car, and rejecting each, since no one seemed to want to talk to her or even *look* at her, she'd found this car, which only contained one person: Neville Longbottom. Heaving her trunk behind her, she opened the door, making a great deal of noise, which in turn made Neville peek up from his curled-up position against the side of the car.  
  
"Hello, Hermione," he said, smiling, and then yawned broadly. It seemed he had been awoken from a nap. "I like your hair."  
  
"Hullo, Neville." *Finally* someone was *talking* to her. "Thanks." As she stowed her trunk, she grunted, "How was your summer?"  
  
"It got better," Neville said, straightening out in his seat. "My grandmother died--"  
  
"Oh, Neville, I'm so sorry," she said, pausing for a moment before releasing the howling Crookshanks from his basket.  
  
"--and I was going to stay with my family, but then I got a job at Fred and George's joke shop, so I got to stay with them!"  
  
"That's great, Neville!" Hermione sat down opposite him. "How are Fred and George?" Due to the random explosions coming from the vicinity of the shop, she hadn't been able to persuade her parents to enter during their visit to Diagon Alley.  
  
"They're okay. How was your summ--ohh..." he trailed off, looking at the floor. There was a pause, as he seemed to be searching for something to say. Then, "Where's your Prefect badge?"  
  
Hermione had been ready to wear her Head Girl badge on the train, but then thought that maybe people would think she was bragging. She'd then realized bitterly that if Harry and Ron were there, she wouldn't have hesitated to wear it. "I don't need it this year," she said.  
  
"What, you think everyone'll recognize you? But what about the first years?"  
  
"No, uh, I'm, uh," she coughed, blushing, "I'm Head Girl."  
  
"Oh! Congratulations, Hermione! But don't you have to wear your badge for that too--"  
  
The door clunked open. "Would either of you like to buy some snacks?"  
  
There was a pang in Hermione's heart. Normally, she would have just had a piece of one of Harry or Ron's cauldron cakes, and nabbed a chocolate frog, but now...she felt sick to her stomach thinking about her conspicuously absent friends. "No, thank you."  
  
"I'll have a chocolate frog," said Neville brightly, not noticing Hermione's discomfort.  
  
*********  
  
Everything after that went according to routine. She spent the rest of the trip talking to Neville, and then reading when he couldn't seem to find a thing to say. Knowing he was trying to avoid the subject of her two missing best friends, she tactfully steered the conversation to her book when there was a lull. She changed clothes on the train, and, when they arrived, she took a coach with Neville up to the castle.   
  
There, having arrived in the Great Hall, she searched for a seat at the Gryffindor table, having exhausted all topics of conversation with Neville, who, though very friendly, tended to talk mostly of Herbology, which--after two hours of it--was boring Hermione out of her wits. Luckily, she didn't have time to be shunned by everyone at the table, since Professor McGonagall called the Prefects/Head Girl/Head Boy meeting. The group was led to a quiet common room, and that was where things got interesting.  
  
"Miss Granger is our Head Girl this year," said McGonagall, smiling and nodding at her, "and our Head Boy is Mr. Malfoy," she nodded at him, and he nodded back, unsmiling.  
  
Hermione noticed for the first time her old archnemesis sitting in a corner of the room. Quite frankly, she couldn't believe she'd overlooked him. But he hadn't said anything snobby to *anybody,* and she'd managed to forget he was present. In fact, she found it odd that he hadn't stopped by her car on the train to insult her, like he usually did.  
  
Just as she was examining the Head Boy curiously, the door opened and a flushed and   
  
smiling Parvati Patil came through it, clicking it shut behind her. "Hi," she said, in the direction of the Ravenclaw Prefects.  
  
"Ah. Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "Since Ms. Granger is Head Girl, and Mr. Weasley...isn't attending this year..." Hermione stared at the floor for a moment. "We've found ourselves short of Prefects in Gryffindor house, so I've asked that Parvati here be made one." Parvati, still smiling, went over to stand by the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, telling them excitedly,   
  
"Professor Dumbledore just announced it in the middle of his speech--I had to run here."  
  
Professor McGonagall then gave the Prefects (new and old) the same speech she seemed to give every year, and then announced all the passwords for common rooms. Then she dismissed the Prefects, requesting that the Head Girl and Boy stay for a few minutes.  
  
"As the Heads of our school, you two will have some new responsibilities." The two students waited patiently and quietly. "You're now in charge of coordinating all celebrations for the holidays, including decorations, entertainment," McGonagall paused significantly after this one, "and food and drink. But your main priority is to set an example for the rest of the school--very important. Keep your marks as they are, continue with your good behavior--or, rather, begin to comport yourself with good behavior--" she looked a bit amused for a moment, "--and you should be fine.  
  
"Now, as Head Boy and Girl, you're entitled to certain privileges, the most significant of which being having your own dormitory." Hermione raised her eyebrows, surprised. "It's located on the third floor, behind the painting of the woman in the white gown. In addition to the password--which is _dimpleton_, by the way--there's a special technique to getting into the door beyond."   
  
McGonagall produced two odd-looking keypads, about the size of Hermione's palm, and presented one to each of them. Examining hers, Hermione discovered that it had, instead of numbers, runes on each button. All the buttons were different colors. "Place this on the door, and enter this combination:" here she demonstrated on Hermione's keypad "red, blue, pink, green. The door will unlock, and you can take the keypad off once the door is open."  
  
The professor looked ready to wrap up her speech. "Well, I'll let you two get to dinner. But on a special note," she leaned closer to the two of them, "I know you two don't get along, but I'll expect nothing less from the Heads of the school than complete civility, am I understood?"  
  
"Yes, Professor," said Hermione. Malfoy just nodded. _The least he could do is *say* something..._ Conversation all finished, the head of Gryffindor house swept out of the room. Hermione looked at Malfoy. Malfoy looked back. "Well, I guess we better..."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
*********  
  
_Why's he being so quiet?_ Hermione asked herself as they made their way to their dormitory after dinner. They'd somehow wound up next to each other as they left the Great Hall. Stealing a peek at him as they ascended the stairs, Hermione noted that his shoulders were slumped as he almost shuffled along. What a change from previous years, when he'd held himself up arrogantly.  
  
Their footsteps echoed in the empty third-floor hallway. _Maybe I should start a conversation._ "So..." began Hermione doubtfully. Malfoy looked at her expectantly, making her panic, having not thought up a question beforehand. _What do you ask a Slytherin after the Dark Lord is defeated?_ She couldn't very well ask him about how he got to be Head Boy, even though that was the only thing coming to mind right now. That would hardly be polite.  
  
She couldn't ask him about their new dormitory, since they were about to see it anyway. And what else did she know about him? Next to nothing. Finally, she settled on, "What electives are you taking this year?"  
  
"Muggle Studies, Divination. Arithmancy." Hermione was startled at the commotion his voice seemed to stir in the air, after such a long time of only the echoing of their footsteps.  
  
"We might wind up in the same class, then," she said, trying to sound as if this was a good thing. She hoped that it was a good thing. "I heard a lot of people have dropped out of Muggle Studies...after the war..." After six months of fighting for themselves, while keeping the entire thing under wraps from Muggles, it was no wonder some wizards harbored ill will toward the non-magic folk.  
  
Wait a second. *Malfoy* taking *Muggle Studies*? Mr. Pureblood himself? This needed further investigation...unfortunately, just then, he answered. "Maybe," he said shortly. Then he looked to his left. "Here we are."  
  
"Hello," Hermione greeted the woman in the portrait. She was tall, extremely delicate-looking, and seemed to be in her early twenties. Her dress was a pure, snow white.  
  
"Hello. It is a great pleasure to meet you. Are you two the Head Boy and Girl?"  
  
"Yes. I'm Hermione Granger, and..." when Malfoy made no motion to introduce himself, she continued. "This is Draco Malfoy."  
  
"Wonderful," said the portrait, smiling affectionately. "My name is Esmerelda Penelope White," she gestured to her dress, "but you can call me Penny. If I may ask, what houses are you two in?"  
  
Malfoy still said nothing, so Hermione spoke for both of them again. "Slytherin," she gestured to her silent companion, "and Gryffindor."  
  
"Ah! Red and green! It's like Christmas!" Sighing dolefully, she said, "I remember my last real Christmas." Penny looked a little wistful. "It was so beautiful." Then she appeared to zone off for a moment, during which time Hermione looked to Malfoy, who looked quizzically at her, as if to say 'I don't know, either.' "But that was a long time ago," Penny said, clearing her throat. "You two wouldn't happen to have the password, would you? It's only for this one time, since there are only the two of you to remember," she chuckled sweetly.  
  
"Dimpleton," said Hermione.  
  
"Ah, that's it," said the portrait warmly, swinging away from the wall.   
  
Behind the framed canvas was a deceptively thin-looking dark, wooden door with a yellow square outline at eye-level to Malfoy. Drawing her keypad out of her pocket, she placed it in the outline and tried to remember the combination. To her surprise, the buttons lit up when the back of the keypad touched the door. _Red, blue, green, pink,_ she entered.  
  
"No, it's like this," Malfoy said, not unkindly. He punched the buttons, _Red, blue, pink, green._ Nothing happened.  
  
"I think you have to--" said Hermione, cutting herself off when she turned the doorknob and the door swung open. Smiling, she took her keypad down from the door and walked down the short hallway to the common room. "Wow," she said shortly.  
  
She turned back to look at Malfoy when she heard the door close behind her, and realized she had been rather rude, but then she turned back to the common room and that didn't seem to matter.  
  
Dark walls gave the room an enclosed, cozy feeling, and everything was decorated a bit more lavishly than the Gryffindor common room, to say the least. Leather chairs, a fancy rug, and a gorgeous fireplace--all in good repair--were the main features of the room. Hermione heard Malfoy stop just left of her elbow, and they both surveyed their new home. Then Malfoy stepped out into the room and passed to the three open doors on the left wall of the room. Peering into one, he looked back at her and said, expressionless, "This one's yours," and passed onto the next one. "Bathroom," he said at the middle door, then at the last one, "Mine." He disappeared through the doorway. _Since when did Malfoy become a wallflower?_  
  
Dragging her fingers across the soft leather of an overstuffed armchair as she passed, Hermione drifted to her room.  
  
*********  
  
Lost.  
  
Hermione felt uprooted from her home. Though the new quarters were certainly beautiful, she'd found last night that she had trouble getting to sleep without the soft breathing--and snoring--of her roommates. Of course, she'd had no trouble at home, but that was a familiar bed, and it felt *right* without her roommates there, but now she was here...and there was that familiar sense of *Hogwarts* around her...well. It just made her feel lost.  
  
And now she was sitting down in her second class of the year: Transfiguration. Her hand kept straying to the pocket in her bag, fingering a small scrap of parchment there. Last period, in Potions (double with the Slytherins, as had become the norm over the years), on the way out she'd seen a tiny bit of parchment slip out of Malfoy's notebook. She'd been the last in the classroom, and had snatched it up to return it to him--what were Head Girls for, anyway?--but when she left the classroom, he was already gone. So as she sat down at her regular (though now empty) table in Professor McGonagall's classroom, she pulled the scrap from her bag and placed it on top of her book.  
  
"Good morning, class," greeted McGonagall, striding in. "I trust you're all feeling refreshed after the summer?" There was a murmuring of various assents and dissents. "Well, we're going to be covering a great deal for your N.E.W.T. exams this year, so..."  
  
The Professor's voice seemed to fade as Hermione began to read the paper. It was covered with lean, spiky handwriting.  
  
~Top Ten Worst Names Ever,~ the title at the top read. Hermione creased her brow in confusion.  
  
~10. Candy, Bambi, Sunny, Bunny, or any other disgustingly sweet name.  
  
9. Burgis--heaven *forbid* some poor man have to respond to this name.  
  
8. Mercedes, Chevrolet--women are not cars, contrary to popular belief.~   
  
Hermione smiled at the paper and tried not to laugh.  
  
7. Priscilla--because I've never really liked the nickname 'Prissy.'  
  
6. Brett or Ralph--or any other name that sounds like someone paying homage to the _ porcelein master.  
  
5. Fox. What woman in her right mind would give this name to a child?  
  
4. Lew, John--yeah, naming a kid after a toilet is a great idea.  
  
3. Adolf and Napoleon--for historical reasons. Besides, one of the nicknames for _ Napoleon is 'Nappy.'  
  
2. Aurelie. "I love you, Aurelie." Say it aloud. That's what I thought.~   
  
Hermione couldn't help it, she started sniggering as quietly as she could.  
  
"Perhaps you'd like to share with the whole class what you find so amusing, Ms. Granger, because it most certainly is not the syllabus." Shocked into solemnity, Hermione grabbed the parchment that had been dropped on her table.  
  
"Sorry, Professor."  
  
McGonagall glared at her for a few seconds before returning to her lecture about turning oneself into things, and the danger that lay in speaking the wrong incantation.  
  
Tucking the slip of parchment away in her bag, Hermione tried to refocus on what her teacher was saying, appalled at her own behavior. _I'll just save number one for later._  
  
*********  
  
It was later--next class, in fact. While Professor Binns began to speak, Hermione drew out the piece of parchment once more, scanned, chuckling quietly, down to the bottom, and reached what she was looking for.  
  
~1. Draco Malfoy.~ There was a scratched-out comment beside it.  
  
What?  
  
*********  
  
A/N--  
  
Next chapter: Why Draco's suddenly a wallflower.  
  
Next chapter will hopefully be up tomorrow, but there's always the possibility I might not have time (yeah, me and my lifestyle that's so busy I have time to write 3000 words of fanfiction a day, okay). 'Till then, I'm pretty happy with how this chapter came out. Intrigue, magic, angst--these are three of my favorite words right now. 'Bye! 


	3. Repressed

Disclaimer: If I owned it, there wouldn't *be* any movies.  
  
A/N: Okay, so, I'm entirely unsatisfied with this chapter, that's why I didn't have it up yesterday. It took me this long to struggle through it. I would have just skipped ahead, but the info in it is just too important to leave out. I apologize for all blatantly obvious angst and over-dramatization in here, okay? Ugh. Just hit me and get it over with...  
  
*********  
  
Late summer, seventh year  
  
*********  
  
Draco Malfoy was folding his clothes into his trunk. There weren't that many that still fit him, however. He reminded himself that he had to get down to Diagon Alley soon, to buy robes that fit.  
  
In went his spellbooks. Since sixth year had been cut off prematurely, he assumed he would need all his old ones as well.  
  
Glancing at his Hogwarts letter, he thought that, yes, his Diagon Alley trip would have to be today. He'd leave a message for his mother with one of the house-elves, she'd gone off to visit his father. His father...  
  
Memories came pouring into Draco's head.  
  
When Lucius Malfoy first came to him to ask him to be a spy at Hogwarts, Draco was already so wrapped up in self-loathing that he would take any scrap of a compliment and prize it like the greatest treasure ever created. And at the time, his father was buttering him up; so, naturally he accepted. _Bimonthly reports,_ said his father, instantly cold once Draco said yes, _sent to me. I'll expect updates on the activities of your headmaster, your potions teacher, and anything else you deem significant, especially anything about that no-good Mudblood Harry Potter._   
  
Draco hadn't needed to ask what the information in the reports would be used for.  
  
While he was gathering information, he made certain to act as usual: cruelly. People often asked behind his back what his problem was, and had he ever picked up a book on psychology, he would have found a page for his problem, realized exactly what it was, and still have been able to do nothing about it. If one is putting others down to bring oneself up, it's a personal problem that can only be solved by feeling better about oneself. That certainly didn't appear to be happening anytime soon.  
  
People thought he hated them, and he let them think that. But the truth was, he didn't hate anybody, really, except himself.  
  
So twice a month reports were owled out of Hogwarts about the goings-on there, and Draco felt worse and worse. He didn't have any real friends, he didn't have his own viewpoint on anything. He was merely an extension of his family; a tool. What was worse, for the longest time he didn't *want* his own viewpoint on anything: he just acted the way he was expected to act and thought the way he was expected to think.  
  
All that changed right after Christmas, fifth year. Well, maybe not the acting part--he still acted exactly as he was expected to, exactly as he had been--but the thinking part, certainly. Ten former-and-still-likely Death Eaters escaped from prison, and the thought had come tumbling down over him like a wave:  
  
_This is serious._  
  
A war was brewing, he knew then, and people were going to be killed. Good people. People, he realized, that some tiny part of his subconscious had been admiring for all of his life. Children brought up in bad homes, it is said, when exposed nearly year-round to bad values, are still able to find at least one shred of goodness in something--that's how they realized they're being brought up badly. Draco had found his hope, and now it was in sincere danger of being extinguished.  
  
Nothing was suspected from his father's end: the reports still came like clockwork, only now they were missing any information that could be deemed valuable. However, it wasn't until that summer that Albus Dumbledore began receiving the anonymous notes detailing plans and meetings of the Death Eaters. Every one came with a different owl, but they were all in the same spiky handwriting, and each was signed 'a friend.'  
  
At first Draco just listened to his father's words as he came back from the meetings, but he soon realized that not enough was being said--his father was too dedicated to the cause to mention anything significant. So he moved onto riffling through Lucius's desk, looking for important documents pertaining to the building tension between light and dark forces. He'd often spend late night trying to break the code-spells on these, then he'd frantically copy everything down and send it out.  
  
Later in the summer he grew bolder in the search for information. Not knowing where the meeting was to be held, Draco followed his father to a meeting in a very secure room. The only way that he found himself able to listen in was through luck, when he'd discovered a crawlspace beneath the floor, and had performed a listening spell to the boards beneath the Death Eaters' very feet. His reward had been great that time, and his letter was filled with three times as many valuable facts as it had been previously.  
  
Emboldened by his success, he followed his father to as many meetings as he could that summer, before he finally had to go back to school. The last meeting he'd snuck into had been the most frightening, and he'd selected the fastest owl at the post office to deliver this letter: a raid on Hogwarts was being planned.  
  
During the first month he felt entirely useless. There was next to no useful information he could glean from his classmates, so all he could do was sit around waiting for the attack to come. Which it did. In a horrendous manner.  
  
Draco was send back to his family's home, and for a few tense months he was surrounded by all the news he could have handled, all of it horrible. It was the night he found out the most noteworthy bit of intelligence that he was finally caught.  
  
He followed his father into the woods, after tailing the car for miles by moonlight on his broomstick. Even though he'd always been a bit creeped out by the forest, he knew he had to find out the instant the tide turned the right way in the war. It was pure dumb luck, he thought now, that some stupid forest creature had chosen to rustle the bush just behind him *just* at the moment when there had been a tense pause in the Death Eaters' conversation. Dragged out in front of his father and the rest of the men in black cloaks, after being treated to a sample of the Cruciatus Curse, he remembered himself saying, looking glumly at the ground, 'I just wanted to be included, father.'   
  
After a dire warning, he'd been released. Since he'd found his own way here, they concluded, he could find his own way home, which he did, at top speed. Once there, he jotted the shortest note he'd ever penned to be sent to Dumbledore, dropped it at the post office to be sent in the morning, and hailed the Knight Bus to take him to the Leaky Cauldron. It had been the next day when he'd awoken to Dumbledore telling him he'd known all along. A few weeks later, the war ended, the remaining Death Eaters captured, and the Dark Lord fallen.  
  
Standing witness at his father's trial had not been easy, Draco recalled, to say the least. Those cold eyes, less than a few feet away, as he spoke the words which would send his own parent to jail for life...Draco had been empty and shaking as they led his father away after the trial. Dumbledore had seemed to understand, and hadn't pressured him to go home, letting him stay at the Leaky Cauldron. Draco spent much of his days locked up inside of his room there at first, with the lights turned off, until finally his mirror had cajoled him into going outside. He'd gone to Gringotts, and that's when he'd found out his small personal account had been frozen.  
  
One month late, he went back to his parents' house to find an irate Narcissa Malfoy. At first the anger had been held tightly inside her as she welcomed him back, but then it burst out full force the next day, when he'd received his letter from Hogwarts, informing him that he was Head Boy. However, it was in a different form than he'd expected: she asked him to resume his spying at his school, to bring any Dark forces still remaining into power. She seemed unaware that the war was over.  
  
'You'll be in the perfect position,' his mother said to him over gradually chilling scrambled eggs. 'It's the least you could do for your father.'  
  
Draco's emotions had raged within him, and there'd been a huge row after that, ending in his outright refusal of anything more to do with any wars. He hadn't spoken to his mother since.  
  
Now he paced across his room, grabbed his Hogwarts list, stroked the feathers of his eagle owl's back one last time, and left for Diagon Alley.  
  
*********  
  
No one was speaking to him, and Draco couldn't say that he blamed them. The general consensus on the part of the wizarding public was that he was, and would always remain, a prejudiced, snotty jerk, loyal to Dark magic. So, despite the fact that numerous people he'd been familiar with were doing last-minute school shopping at Diagon Alley, he remained silent and stoic, except when speaking to clerks at the various stores he went into.  
  
Among the stores visited were the usual bookstore, an apothecary, and a robes store. At these he got the books on his list, refills for his potion ingredients (as well as some more rare ingredients that only seventh years were allowed to handle), and some robes that actually fit him. Before he'd received his letter this year, Draco had assumed he wouldn't be needing his dress robes anymore, but no, there they were on the required items list, so he let the friendly fitting-witch bustle around searching for the perfect color. Among the stores he *didn't* visit were the Quidditch store, a store devoted entirely to hair-care products (because he'd given up on being concerned over his appearance long ago), and Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes (because no matter how interested he was in the merchandise, he knew he'd never be welcome there).   
  
Before he left for home, Draco stopped at the Leaky Cauldron for a drink. Sitting down at the bar, he greeted the bartender and asked for a glass of water. Anything to delay his return home for awhile.  
  
As the bartender served him, he asked, "Why so glum, chum? Been a bit of time since you've been in here. As I recall, you weren't too happy then, neither."  
  
Considering the man, Draco decided that he wouldn't understand, and took a sip of his water. "Nothing that's going to get better anytime soon."  
  
"How do you know that, mate? Why, I'll bet there's a twist of fate just around the corner--things'll turn around when you least expect 'em to."  
  
"Yeah. Right." Malfoy decided he was better off at home with his depression than here with an optimistic bartender. Downing his water, he said, "Thanks. 'Bye," and made his exit.  
  
*********  
  
With nothing more than a chilly glance from his mother as a farewell, Draco found himself on the train to Hogwarts. Usually he'd have to sit in the Prefects car, but he soon found that, as his home life had been changing, so had his school life--there wasn't a Prefects car anymore. Sitting in a car full of excited first years had been a mistake, he was thinking now, because once they got over their original trepidation of a gloomy seventh year, they resumed bouncing around the car wildly. Draco found himself slipping into his thoughts once again...  
  
He hadn't originally wanted to go to Hogwarts. Durmstrang, a school focused primarily on the Dark Arts, had been his first choice, mainly because of the fact that it was hundreds of miles away from his father. But that hadn't worked out, so he'd wound up at Hogwarts, a Slytherin because of his mindset the first year, and surrounded by hundreds of children who were closer to enemies than friends.   
  
Pondering life this year was certainly a daunting task. Half of the people in Slytherin, he figured, would be gone for some reason or other stemming from the war, which only made sense, since they'd been planning to be. So he'd be stuck in the same old cold dungeon dormitory, but it would seem even more empty than before. And his friends--well, he couldn't really call them friends anymore, could he?--would probably have heard of his traitorous ways, if no one else had, and would shun him. Not that he wanted to speak to them ever again anyway. Draco knew a bad person when he met them, he just hadn't had the intelligence to stay away from them before.  
  
He wondered what his duties as Head Boy would be. Could he have to--  
  
"Hey...uh...mister?" An insistent tugging of his sleeve drew his attention to the source: a frightened-looking first year. Had he ever been that small? Draco wondered.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Um...we're here. At Hogwarts?" The kid looked excited. "You know? Um, you wouldn't know where we're supposed to go, would you?"  
  
Draco couldn't help but smile. He'd been that eager to attend, once. "There's a man out there," he chucked a thumb toward the window, "who'll be over the heads of everyone on the platform. Just follow him to the boats. Leave your trunks here," he said as he stood up to go. "Good luck at the sorting," he called as he exited the car, and then wondered why he'd said that.  
  
"What 'sorting'?" he heard behind him.  
  
Oh, if that kid only knew...  
  
*********  
  
A/N: Congratulations! You made it through! Could the foreshadowing and obvious angst get *any* *thicker*? Honestly, I'm disgusted with myself. Don't worry, people, I'm almost certain the next chapter will be an improvement. And, although I make no promises, as usual, I hope to have it to you by tomorrow night. :D  
  
Special questions:  
  
1) What's the name of Malfoy's eagle owl? Does anyone know?  
  
2) When do Hogwarts students learn to apparate?  
  
3) N.E.W.T.s are seventh year, right?  
  
Just want to check this stuff before I put it in the story. I'll love you if you help me out. Thanks! 


	4. Depressed

Disclaimer: I own Harry Potter about as much as I own a large mansion in Beverly Hills.  
  
A/N: I want to thank you guys for giving me all this awesome feedback, it makes me feel all squishy inside. For the purposes of this story, I'm going to make Apparating the equivalent of driving (you learn it at about sixteen and a half, you have to take a test before you're allowed to do it legally), but not until later. And don't worry, classes are gonna get wicked hard for these two, in preparation for their N.E.W.T.s. There will eventually be a name for Draco's eagle owl. :D Thanks for answering my questions.  
  
Now, I realize that this chapter is short, but it serves a dramatic purpose, okay, so don't come yelling at me for lack of text.   
  
Oh, one more thing, about the bad dream: I wrote it in first person, and in present tense, mostly because I wanted the reader to feel as if it's happening to them. I realize I could've done it in second person, but that would've been a bit too drastic of a change for the purposes of this story. As it is, I feel I have to remind you that your own nightmares probably do *not* seem as scary to one who hasn't experienced them.  
  
Enjoy the chapter!  
  
*********  
  
The room was dark and almost silent, except for the quiet breathing emanating from the figure on the bed.  
  
~~A long, blackened corridor. It sounds wet. Fetid liquid drips down the walls on either side, and falls off the ceiling at random intervals. I stride forward, heels clicking and echoing wetly. The malodorous water drips into my hair, onto my clothes.  
  
Ducking to the side suddenly, I press a piece of dampened wall that seems the same as the rest, and a huge, rectangular chunk of wall slides back and scrapes aside. I'm reminded vaguely of something from real life...real life...yes, this is a dream, but that's okay...  
  
This is a chilly, brightly-lit room. I don't have to look back, but I know that there's no longer a damp corridor behind me. Damp corridor? Wherever did I get that idea? My mother is in front of me, sitting at the end of the longest table I've ever seen. I walk down to her, and somehow manage to pass the miles-long table in a few steps. Holding out a vial containing a blood-red but transparent liquid, she says, "You must have this--for me, for your father," and I know the liquid is poison. I speak without speaking and agree, and I tip back the vial, and follow its contents' burning path down my throat...  
  
I fall and land in myself on a moonless night, in a heap on the forest floor. I don't move for a long time, but then I look up into my father's cold and angry eyes. Words come out of my mouth: "I just wanted--"~~  
  
Draco awoke with a jerk, eyes opening wide for the almost-pitch black room. Taking a deep, sharp breath, he sat up in bed, and, breathing a deep sigh, rubbed his fingers across his eyes and temples. Another nightmare. And he'd thought he'd be rid of them once he got to Hogwarts...  
  
What had this once been about? He'd forgotten already. Well, it wasn't worth remembering anyway, he thought bitterly.   
  
His lower back was protesting to the lack of sleeping happening in the room, so he was about to lie back down and try and grab some rest when he caught a flash of light from his doorway. Instantly tense and alert, Draco searched the space near the doorway with his eyes. Ah! There it was again, and closer, and--  
  
Oh. For a moment he'd forgotten he wasn't in his old room off the Slytherin common room. It was just his new roommate's cat, what was its name? _Why does its name matter now?_ he asked himself. _Go to sleep._ The cat's eyes flashed greenish-yellow one more time, and then the black shape was gone from his doorway. Draco lay down again.  
  
As he drifted off to sleep, Draco thought about the brief conversation he'd had with the Head Girl. He'd almost wanted her to ask him how he got to be Head Boy...he'd have a helluva story to tell her...not that he'd ever actually tell her...  
  
*********  
  
Potions, History of Magic, and now Transfiguration. Draco heaved an inward sigh. School as usual. At least some things hadn't changed. McGonagall was telling them that, since their sixth year had been cut short, they'd be doing a great deal of makeup work. This prompted much of the class to groan, and complain that they'd have to send home for their old books. Draco didn't know why they were so surprised by now--it had been the same procedure in their previous two classes.  
  
Looking around himself, Draco thought once again of how empty his classes seemed to be now. All the people he'd been buddy-buddy with in previous years seemed to be gone: Millicent Bulstrode, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini. He couldn't say he was sorry to see them gone.  
  
He knew where they were, of course. After the raid on Hogwarts last year, their overprotective parents wouldn't have wanted to send them back. They'd probably been sent off to some place like Durmstrang or Beauxbatons, or were being homeschooled or something like that. That was okay, though--he'd be able to focus more readily on his schoolwork without quasi-friends like them around to bother him.   
  
Speaking of schoolwork--Draco took down McGonagall's first assignment of the year with a sigh. He'd have to shut himself up in his room to finish an assignment like that in two days. Not that he was a stranger to shutting himself up in his room. Thinking back to his long year during the war, Draco recalled how surprised he'd been after awhile when there wasn't a worn spot in the carpet from his pacing. Day after day he'd spent, walking back and forth in his bedroom, eventually getting so dizzy he had to sit down, only to get up and pace again. He didn't know what his parents had assumed he was doing in there. They probably hadn't cared anyway, being too busy with their Death Eater friends.   
  
_'Friends,'_ thought Draco scornfully. _Like those people could ever be friends to anyone._ They could turn on a 'friend' in an instant, and would, too, if it would serve them. Frankly, he was glad that he didn't have any 'friends' like that anymore. No one had made a move to 'befriend' him yet today, probably having heard about his betrayal during the war. Well, good riddance to them. He didn't need human company anyway. He could function like a little machine, an automaton, going from class to class to library to class.  
  
He'd functioned like a machine at breakfast and dinner each day, he recollected. His father wouldn't always be there, but his mother almost always would, sitting down at the other end of the table, distractedly poking at her mashed potatoes. Food would go from his plate to his mouth automatically, and he'd chew and swallow in such an exacting and methodical way that he sometimes wondered if his parents saw him as a golem.  
  
Apparently they did. That conversation with his mother after his father had gone to jail. As if he was just a facsimile of a person, to be ordered around, to be told that he should go spy on his classmates again. After speaking at his father's trial, no less. Like that was just a flaw in his programming, that he helped lock his father away for life.  
  
_Was it what she was asking me to do or how she asked me to do it?_ he thought. What had made him blow up at her?  
  
She'd told him to spy on people like him, people who held the same beliefs. She'd wanted him to pry into their lives and find a weak spot. To be heartless, thoughtless. Like she was. Uncaring of other people, of their privacy, of their *feelings.* She'd wanted *him* to go in and do *her* *dirty* *work,* wanted him to hide behind a mask of self-confidence and INSULT them, like he had gotten SO SICK of doing, wanted him to WORM his way into their HEARTS and STEAL THEIR DIGNITY AND HUMANITY! WELL, HE WAS GOING TO *TAKE* A *STAND,* GODAMMIT! HE WOULDN'T HURT ANY MORE PEOPLE! HE WOULDN'T REACH INTO THEIR CHESTS AND RIP OUT THEIR INSIDES AND SHOW IT TO THEM! AND HE CERTAINLY WOULDN'T DO THE CRUCIATUS CURSE ON HIS *OWN* *SON*! HE WOULDN'T, *he* *wouldn't,* _he wouldn't,_ he wouldn't...  
  
*********  
  
"I won't, I won't, I won't," Draco moaned quietly from the floor, curled up into himself. There was a soft touch to his shoulder, barely a graze of fingertips, and he jumped back, suddenly sitting upright, breathing hard, looking with an indiscernible but passionate expression into the face of...Professor McGonagall...  
  
"Mr. Malfoy," she said gently. "I think you had better go see the Headmaster." Gulping, his breathing starting to slow, he focused his eyes on her hand, which held a hastily-penned note. Wordlessly, he took it very slowly from her, then, calming slightly, pushed himself off the floor. Dusting himself off, he uttered a quiet,  
  
"Thank you," before shakily walking out the door of the classroom.  
  
*********  
  
A/N: Bet you didn't expect THAT, did you?! ::malicious laughter:: Now you see why I had to make the chapter shorter, don't you?  
  
u-ne-korn: There'll be an explanation about the dormitory next chapter, since Draco's been wondering about it too (even if I haven't mentioned it).  
  
Hermione will soon be stressing out about--not only her lack of friends due to the war--her experiences during the war. Next chapter, if I can get my muse to cooperate.  
  
Next chapter: The meeting with Dumbledore, and Hermione goes to visit Hagrid. 


	5. Realizations and thinking things through

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing!  
  
A/N: Sorry this took so long. ::hugs to everyone who reviewed::  
  
Note to Luna (whoever you are), and to anyone like her: What Fanfiction.Net stands for is freedom of speech, but there is such a thing as abusing a privilege. Now, unusual pairings, I have found, such as Hermione/Draco, or Draco/Ginny, or Harry/McGonagall, etc., are a matter of taste. Most of them are acquired. And the thing that makes them compelling is the challenge. Whenever I click into one of these fics, I think, "How is the author going to justify *this* one?" So, quite frankly, if you find one of these pairings to be a blasphemy in the Church of Harry Potter, you don't read it. And you *certainly* don't diss my little sister when she's writing her first fanfiction.  
  
I apologize for the above, but, hey, sisterly pride and all that. On with the show!  
  
*********  
  
As soon as he got out of the classroom, Draco collapsed against the wall and took a few deep, calming breaths. If he hadn't been unpopular before, he certainly would be now. Wondering if he would be able to trace the rumors about him spreading around the school, he unfolded the note McGonagall had handed him.  
  
~Mr. Malfoy,  
  
You should not be reading a note a teacher handed you.~   
  
Draco chuckled despite himself.  
  
~I will be expecting your homework a day late. I hope you will soon feel well enough to comport yourself properly in class.~ The note went on to detail directions to the Headmaster's office, and how to get in, and was signed with a dignified "M.M."  
  
Walking through the halls between classes was extremely odd. Draco could hear the voices of his teachers, and of other people in the school, reverberating around in the hallways, but he couldn't usually see the source of the noise.   
  
"You!" called an angry voice just as Draco reached the entrance to Dumbledore's office. Whirling around, he slumped when he saw that it was Argus Filch, the school's head disciplinarian. "What do you think you're doin' out here between classes?" Filch squinted at Draco's chest. "And you're Head Boy, too! Think you can get away with things just 'cause you've got a shiny badge? Think again, you little tr--"  
  
"I've got a note," managed Draco, pulling it out of his pocket. Much to his surprise and relief, the back of the note read 'Hall Pass.' Filch inspected it closely, then stalked away grumbling, followed closely by his annoyed cat, Mrs. Norris.  
  
Looking to the statue in front of him, Draco said, embarrassed, "Licorice twist," and was allowed passage into the office.  
  
Staring around the room in wonder, as he'd never been in here before, Draco didn't notice that Professor Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk. That was why he startled when Dumbledore said, "You have business?"  
  
"Oh," said Draco, blushing mildly. "Yes."  
  
"Have a seat, then." Draco complied. There was a quiet moment between the two of them. Then--  
  
"Well, out with it then, I'm not omniscient, you know," said Dumbledore, eyes twinkling.  
  
_'Omniscient'...From the Latin...'omnis' means all, and...'scientia' means knowledge...all knowledge? All...knowing? Oh..._ thought Draco, understanding slowly dawning on him. "Professor McGonagall sent me, sir," he said slowly.  
  
"For what reason?" prompted Dumbledore, not impatient.  
  
"I...uh...collapsedinclasssir," mumbled Draco, looking at the floor.  
  
"What was that?"  
  
He cleared his throat, looking up again. "Had a bit of a...an episode...in Transfiguration, sir."  
  
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. "I...see. Does this have anything to do with your experiences last year?"  
  
*********  
  
Thoughts of Malfoy's reserve nagged at Hermione all day. Why hadn't he insulted her first chance he got? Why had he helped her remember the code for her keypad? And what was with that note? Why did he hate his own name so much? _Well, it isn't the most desirable name in the world...but he ought to be used to it by now._ But as she passed from class to class, thoughts of Malfoy seemed to dwindle in importance.   
  
No one would look at her. No one had made an attempt to speak to her. Why?   
  
Hermione knew she was bookish, and sometimes distant, but this was a bit ridiculous. Neville was the only one who had said a word to her all day, and that was only because she asked to borrow his red ink. Her classmates' avoidance seemed to be contagious. She'd gone all the way through Arithmancy, where she was usually looked to for assistance, without one question from the other students in class. And not one word had been spoken to her during lunch.  
  
Now she walked through the grounds to Hagrid's hut, certain--in a huffy sort of way--that if he wouldn't talk to her, she was destined to be mute for the rest of the year.  
  
*********  
  
  
  
Draco was determined to remain mute, until, unfortunately, he was prompted with his name. "Yes," he said darkly, glaring at the floor. "It does." The man behind the desk said nothing, merely waiting for Draco to speak. Draco, meanwhile, was searching desperately for a way to change the subject. "Sir? Do the Head Boy and Head Girl always share dormitories?"  
  
"Yes, actually. You're old enough to be trusted, and you'll need to be working on the holiday festivities together. It only makes sense for you to be in close quarters," Dumbledore said, then continued with a tiny smile. "How are you and Hermione doing on planning our Halloween celebration?"  
  
"We haven't started yet."  
  
"Well, the staff expects great things from you two, of course, in addition to your top scores in N.E.W.T. classes. In fact," the old man leaned forward conspiratorially, "I wouldn't object if you wanted to visit Hogsmeade a time or two to get supplies. I have a feeling you'll need to."  
  
"Sir," said Draco, raising his head, now ready to talk. "I want to be a good person," he asserted firmly. To any other person besides Dumbledore, this may not have made sense, coming out of the blue as it was, but the old man seemed instantly focused on what Draco had to say. "I can't tiptoe around my parents' reputations for my whole life: it's like tiptoeing around a giant--you can pretend it's not in the room, but eventually you're going to have to admit to the problem's existence." Draco didn't pause to reflect about making sense; he paused to collect his wits for what he was about to say. "My parents supported V-Voldemort." He took a deep breath. "I don't. I've never wanted him to win. I can't--I can't go around feeling sorry for myself anymore," he finished lamely. "I'm not very good at saying things, am I?"   
  
"You're right, Draco, you can't go around feeling sorry for yourself all the time," said Dumbledore, disregarding the last statement. "But I'm afraid these are problems I can't really help solve: you have to deal with them on your own. I can, however, tell you this: You've come this far. You have survived the worst of it." Draco cleared his throat, feeling a lump beginning to form there. "And from what I've seen you are a level-headed, intelligent individual, who has had the bravery to stand up for ideals he believes in."   
  
Yup, it was a definite lump, thought Draco, as a few tears slid down his cheeks. He gulped, and stared down at his hand, twisting uncomfortably on the armrest of his chair.  
  
"Draco," said Dumbledore softly. "You did a very good thing last summer, and this year. You have proven that you are, indeed, quite capable of acting selflessly. But now, I think," he said, and his voice dropped until it was barely a whisper, "it's time to turn inward."  
  
Then Draco got the sense it was time to go, and swiped the back of his hand across his face. "Can I--do I have to--?"  
  
"You can stay in the hospital wing for now if you'd like some privacy. I'll have a word with Madame Pomfrey if you'd like to go down there."  
  
Standing up, and trying to keep himself together, Draco nodded mutely.  
  
*********  
  
"Hermione!" boomed Hagrid. _Well, I suppose I won't be mute this year,_ thought Hermione. "Come on in!" Ushering her inside of his hut, he closed the door behind them. "How was yer first day?"  
  
Situating herself in a chair twice her size, Hermione said glumly, "Awful."  
  
"Awful? Why's tha'? Here, let me getcha some tea." Hermione would have thought Hagrid would be too large to bustle, but, apparently, you can bustle at any size. Cupboard doors were opened and closed, water was put on the fire.  
  
"No one's said a thing to me all day!"  
  
"Well, I have, that should count fer somethin'," said Hagrid, gruffly amused. He patted Fang the boarhound heavily on the head while turning to look for cups.  
  
"Well, I mean, *besides* you," said Hermione. "Why isn't anyone *talking* to me, Hagrid?"  
  
Hagrid busied himself with a drawer, shifting things around. "Hagrid?" said Hermione after a few moments' silence.   
  
"What kinda tea d'ye want, Hermione?"  
  
"The regular kind, Hagrid," said Hermione, perplexed.  
  
"Right. Right, o'course." Hagrid selected the tea and began preparing the cups for the water.  
  
"Hagrid, what--?"  
  
Just then, the kettle started whistling. Hagrid picked it up in one gigantic hand and poured the hot water into the cups.  
  
"Hagrid, are you--?"  
  
Cupboards were opened and closed, a tray was set out and loaded with a sugar bowl, tongs, and a couple of spoons. The two cups were then placed delicately in the center, and Hagrid picked up the tray and carefully carried it over to a (relatively) small end table near where Hermione was sitting. The smaller cup and spoon were placed delicately in Hermione's hands. "There yeh go," said Hagrid.  
  
"Hagrid," she said firmly, putting the spoon in the cup and setting the cup on her lap. "What is the problem?"  
  
"I..."  
  
"I asked you a simple question, and you're running all over like mad! What are you keeping from me?"  
  
"Well..." said Hagrid awkwardly. "Yeh do know about the article, right?"  
  
"Article? What *article*?"  
  
"I kept a copy," said Hagrid, shuffling over to a shelf and pulling off a mildly yellowing _Daily Prophet._ "I thought, y'know, what with...Harry," Hagrid looked very sad for a moment, and sniffed very deeply, before looking warily to see if Hermione was doing the same, "and all, yeh might've unsubscribed...here..." Hermione took the paper carefully and unfolded it. "Third page..."  
  
~Hogwarts student takes inheritance,~ read the heading.  
  
~Hermione Granger, former two-timing girlfriend of the  
  
late Harry Potter, has tampered with the will of the  
  
Boy-Who-Lived-And-Then-Didn't. While the funds of Mr.  
  
Potter were originally to be distributed to charity,  
  
Granger, 16, somehow managed to transfer the funds to  
  
her own account at Gringotts.   
  
Granger, after being involved with Mr. Potter and   
  
another boy romantically at the same time during her   
  
fourth year at Hogwarts,...~  
  
"But none of that's *true,* Hagrid!" protested Hermione, taken aback at the article. "This is *awful*!"  
  
"I know. But it might account fer the rest o' yer class givin' ye the evil eye."  
  
"But--Hagrid--what about Howlers? After that other story was published in the _Daily Prophet_ in fourth year, people sent me all sorts of awful mail!"  
  
"They couldn' find ya, I don' think," said Hagrid, settling down into a chair. "Muggles' addresses are rarely listed--no offense, Hermione."  
  
"None taken."  
  
"I reckon all o' the nastier stuff that people really wanted to send ended up at the _Daily Prophet_ headquarters."  
  
"I can't believe this," said Hermione, staring at the newspaper. "Who wrote this?" she said suddenly, scanning down the page. "Who would--" she found it.  
  
~penned by Narcissa Malfoy~  
  
"Who--Malfoy's mother?! Why would she--?! Ugh! That's it--I'm going to talk to that boy right now!" raged Hermione, slamming her tea down on the table and heading for the door. "Thanks for the tea, Hagrid!" she added almost angrily as an afterthought, and shut the door loudly behind her.  
  
After a quick visit to the portrait of the woman in white, to check to see if Malfoy was back in their common room (which he wasn't), Hermione stopped at Professor McGonagall's room, which was on the way, to see if she knew where he was. That was where she was informed that McGonagall had just received a note saying he was in the hospital wing.  
  
Madame Pomfrey was going to have an enraged Hermione Granger on her hands in a very short time.  
  
*********  
  
A/N: Jeepers, do I torture these characters. Well, things are really heating up now, I must say. I think I'll find the next chapter much easier to write, as it contains:  
  
THE TURNING POINT   
  
in the main relationship in this ficcie.  
  
I am so excited. 


	6. Fresh start

Disclaimer: All right, I admit it. I don't own this. ::bursts into tears::  
  
A/N: What was *with* my formatting yesterday?! I was wiggin' out! Did you see it? Ugh! It was all in one clump. Well, thank goodness FF.N has stopped being all wonky, and it shows my formatting the way it's supposed to be.   
  
Sorry I took so long with this chapter. My play opened on Thursday, and it runs pretty late, so I've been spending most of my time on that. Good news is: we put on a wicked awesome show last night. ::ticker-tape parade::  
  
And here we go!  
  
*********  
  
Hermione burst through the door to the hospital wing, found the occupied bed, and stormed towards it. "Malfoy, what--" she began angrily. Then she paused in her speech for a millisecond, slowing because of the picture Malfoy made. Paler than usual, with red, puffy eyes, he seemed to have shrunk among the white sheets of his bed. He was wearing the hospital-wing issue pajamas, which were pale blue and flimsy, and as soon as the door crashed open he had clutched at a clump of his blanket as if it could protect him from her wrath. But then the split-second passed, and Hermione forged onward as if nothing had happened. "Malfoy, what is this?!" she demanded, enraged, brandishing the newspaper at him.  
  
"A newspaper?" offered Draco, confused.  
  
"Don't play dumb with me," said Hermione.  
  
"I'm not!"  
  
"You're telling me that you don't know what this is? I refuse to believe that," Hermione stated, eyes narrowing.  
  
"Believe it or not, it's true," said Draco, getting a bit defensive. "Care to share?"  
  
"Here," she almost spat, shoving the paper into his hands. "See if that doesn't refresh your memory."  
  
Draco scanned through the beginning of the article, growing more and more puzzled. Brow creasing, his voice was calmer when he asked her, "But it's not true, is it?"  
  
Hermione had been tapping her foot, waiting for him to finish. "Of course it's not true!" she burst out. "I would never do anything like that to--!" she cut herself off, looking at the floor, troubled. "I would *never* do anything like that," she looked back to him. His eyes were still directed at the newspaper.  
  
"So if you know it's not true, then...?"  
  
"Nobody will talk to me, all right? They believe it."  
  
"Are you sure that's the only reason they're not talking to you?"  
  
Malfoy spoke as if he was thinking through a complicated Arithmancy problem. "What?"  
  
"Think about it," he said, moving his fingers across the paper as if he were doing a connect-the-dots. "You've just lost your two best friends," his eyes flickered to somewhere over her shoulder, then back to the paper. "They'll be treading on eggshells with you, out of concern, yes? And then...you'll be the only one with any experience," he reasoned slowly.  
  
"Experience?"  
  
"You've seen combat." Now his gaze was somewhere near his feet, and his chin was placed thoughtfully on his hand. "They haven't. *Their* parents all hid them away from the war, while you were right in the thick of it. You're a veteran. They'll be intimidated by that. And then this," he gestured to the paper awkwardly. "They probably don't know *what* to think about you."  
  
Just like that he managed to figure out the whole problem. "What if you're wrong?" asked Hermione lamely, since she didn't think he was.   
  
"Then I'm wrong...so what did I have to do with all this?" he asked, not rudely.  
  
Anger came flooding back through Hermione. He may have figured out her problem quite calmly and rationally, but he still had some explaining to do. Snatching the paper out of his hands, Hermione pointed at the bottom of the article, putting in his face. "There. *That's* what you have to do with it."  
  
There was a pause. "When was this published?"  
  
"This summer. Why?" Now she grew more interested than incensed.   
  
"I was...otherwise occupied at the time. I didn't even know my mother had gotten a job at the paper," he uttered disconsolately.  
  
"Oh," said Hermione, sinking into the chair beside his bed, all ire gone. She couldn't very well blame him, then, could she? Unless--her eyes narrowed suspiciously--he was pulling another one of his infamous cruel tricks. But...no, he was merely staring at his hand on the blanket, looking bewildered and very sad. Still not looking in her direction. "Did you...what are you doing in the hospital wing, anyway?"  
  
"Dumbledore said I could stay here." _For some privacy,_ he thought. _Didn't wind up getting that, did I? Oh, well..._  
  
"You talked to Dumbledore?" asked Hermione curiously. _This early in the year?_ "What about?"  
  
"Oh--you know--planning the holidays and things. Why we're sharing a dormitory," he covered. Didn't want her to know the *real* reason: he couldn't handle his emotional overload.  
  
"Why *are* we sharing a dormitory?" Hermione was now feeling quite guilty for bursting in here full of accusations when her roommate--who had yet to do anything more callous to her this year than hold back from conversing--was apparently sick.   
  
"He says he trusts us," Draco smiled lightly, amused. "Oh, he says we can go to Hogsmeade if we want to get supplies for the holiday parties. Says he expects 'great things' of us." He was still focused entirely on his blanket, not looking at her.  
  
"Oh," said Hermione. _Well, don't I feel awful,_ she was thinking. _He went and got us information, and *gave* it to me, even though he's been so tight-lipped before. He didn't even *try* to use it against me. And he helped me with my problem. And he looks so sad...why won't he look at me?_ It was unnerving. Hermione was used to connecting to people while she spoke to them. She was a bit distraught because of this subtle refusal to make eye contact.  
  
Meanwhile, Draco was involved in an internal debate. _I won't do it,_ said one part of him.  
  
_Don't you want to be a good person?_ argued the other part. _Now's your chance!_  
  
_But she hates me!_  
  
_Probably 'cause you were such a bastard to her._  
  
_Yeah, well..._ one side of him ceded to the point.  
  
_So make it up to her!_  
  
_How?!_  
  
_Apologize, dimwit!_  
  
_To *her*? But she's been nothing but rude to me!_  
  
_And *you've* been nothing but rude to *her!*_  
  
_True..._  
  
_You're going to be living with her, you know._  
  
_I still don't think this was what Dumbledore meant..._  
  
_Fresh start?_ reminded one side of him.  
  
'But I'm afraid these are problems I can't really help solve: you have to deal with them on your own,' Dumbledore had said, and wasn't he supposed to be the wizest wizard available, all told? Hell, Draco himself had said he couldn't continue to mope around...he was going to have to talk to somebody sometime. And here was a somebody sitting right by his bed.  
  
_Fresh start,_ he thought to himself.  
  
Lifting his eyes to Hermione's for the first time since she had walked in, Draco paused until she looked back into his before speaking. "I'm sorry," he said softly. Now that he wasn't trying to project, it was audible that his voice was hoarse from crying. The words scraped out of his throat. "I'm sorry for everything I've ever said or done to you," he said, and realized that he meant it.  
  
Well, it was a start.  
  
*********  
  
Writing letters home once a week. What had her parents been *thinking*? It would detract time from her schoolwork, for God's sake! And besides that, she was *seventeen*! She hadn't been homesick since her first week in first year! She certainly wasn't a baby anymore...she had combat experience, like Malfoy had said...well, she *had* made a promise. Sighing, Hermione pushed her Potions homework to the other side of the couch and pulled out one of the sheets of stationary her parents had given her. Using a regular Muggle...what were they called again? Oh yes, pens. Using a regular Muggle pen, she began putting her first letter to paper.  
  
~Dear Mom and Dad,  
  
Everything's going all right here at school. Having a bit of trouble in Ancient Runes, but nothing I can't handle. I'm a bit lonely without Harry and Ron, though, and--~  
  
_No, no, no,_ thought Hermione, crumpling that sheet of paper. _Don't let them think you can't handle it._ Besides, who was she kidding? She was a *lot* lonely without Harry and Ron, especially since, despite her revelation about the reasons behind their silence, everyone was still avoiding her. Another clean sheet of stationary was drawn out of her bag, and she started over.  
  
~Dear Mom and Dad,  
  
School is pretty much going as usual, even though--~  
  
No, that wouldn't do. Wasn't the whole point of this exercise that they didn't know anything about her school anyway?  
  
~Dear Mom and Dad,  
  
Here's my schedule for this year:  
  
Monday:  
  
1st: Potions, with Professor Snape. He tends to--~  
  
Ugh! That was too just-the-facts for her parents. They didn't expect a report on her schoolwork, they expected a letter from their daughter.   
  
~Dear Mom and Dad,--~  
  
Hermione sat in thought for awhile. When nothing came to her to write, she growled in frustration and scribbled out what she had written, crumpling this paper, too.  
  
"What are you doing?" came a voice from the doorway. Hermione looked up. There was Malfoy, looking curious, but more importantly, less than hostile.  
  
"My parents are making write home to them every week. They insist I use the Muggle post, too. It's stupid."  
  
"That sucks," he agreed, moving to sit in the armchair nearest the window. "Do they remember how old you are?"  
  
"No," she chuckled, surprised at herself. "And, apparently, the fact that I'm Head Girl means that I'm immature and irresponsible." He smiled lightly at her as he drew out his homework to work on. Hermione turned back to her letter, but didn't return to thinking about it yet.  
  
It had been a few days ago when they'd had that little...moment...in the hospital wing. Since then, Hermione had been confused and anxious to the point where she was distracted from her schoolwork, which was most *certainly* not a good thing. After he'd apologized to her, she had made a slightly strangled noise in the back of her throat, and then made a rather hasty exit without another word. He'd apologized to her...  
  
The look in his eyes had been enough to make Hermione prone to believe him. He had truly *seemed* sorry, for apparently the first time in his life...well, that wasn't true, she hadn't known him his whole *life.* He wasn't about to cry when he'd met her eyes, though it looked as though he might have been doing that earlier. No, he'd just been remarkably sincere and apologetic.  
  
For the first day or so Hermione had thought it might have been one of his heartless pranks. But as time wore on, she thought about it, and it seemed less and less likely. For one thing, he'd helped her figure out her problem. That alone was enough to dissolve some of her resentment towards him. For another, he told her that he'd known nothing of his mother's article. And then he'd apologized...  
  
And he hadn't *seemed* like he was lying. Hermione stole a glimpse of him in his armchair. He looked positively *docile,* just sitting there, scratching his quill across his parchment, looking up a word or two in his book.  
  
So far he hadn't been cruel to her at *all.*   
  
_Oh! I've been sitting here doing nothing,_ thought Hermione, picking up her pen again.  
  
~Dear Mom and Dad,~ she wrote.  
  
He'd apologized...and he hadn't asked for her forgiveness.  
  
Hermione startled a little, and Malfoy looked up at her. She bent to scribble on her stationary.  
  
~School's going okay. Been studying really hard--~ he looked down again, and Hermione breathed a very tiny sigh and stopped writing.  
  
He *hadn't* asked her. Of *course* it wasn't some cruel joke--what had she been thinking? If it had been a joke, he would have *begged* her, played it up so he could tell his friends later about her reaction. But he'd just *told* her. And now, she realized, she'd gotten a little glimpse of what he was really like, how he really acted when he wasn't insulting her or her friends.  
  
He'd shown her something of himself. Hermione glanced up at him again, and this time he glanced up, too. She quickly looked back at her paper.  
  
~--and all my classes are really great. They're really challenging this year, 'cause of N.E.W.T.s. Have I told you about N.E.W.T.s? It stands for Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests. I already took my O.W.L.s, remember? I showed you the results.~  
  
_I never thought I'd be thinking this, but...Malfoy's not so bad,_ thought Hermione, astonished. He'd been nothing but nice to her yet this year, and she'd been...well, pretty horrid to come into the hospital wing like that. It was almost as if he was trying for a...fresh start with her. _A fresh start. And he said he was sorry._  
  
Once more she looked up at Malfoy, but this time she said, softly,  
  
"I forgive you."  
  
He looked up, shocked, and she turned, smiling, back to her stationary.  
  
~Since I'm Head Girl I get a new roommate, and we get to work on a few special projects together. He's nice, I don't know if I told you about him before, his name is,~ Hermione wrote, ~Draco Malfoy.~ Resolving to find a way to put it in the Muggle Post tomorrow, she signed the letter "with love" and folded it up.  
  
And for the next half-hour or so, Draco wore a tiny, watery smile.  
  
*********   
  
  
  
A/N: Well, there you have it. Mush. And *that's* the turning point in their relationship. Hurray! Feedback is begged for on bended knee. 


	7. Meet Professor Pinebrow

*********  
  
For a long time, that night, after finishing her first letter to her parents, Hermione tried to redefine her relationship with Malfoy in her head. It was incredibly difficult. By the time she'd fallen asleep, she'd made no headway, so just before her eyes slipped closed she resolved to continue pondering the problem the next day. She was firmly committed to that...  
  
At least, until she met the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.  
  
The professor hadn't shown up for their first day of class, leaving a group of bewildered Gryffindors sitting at their seats. Most of them finally fell into chatter; Hermione wound up reviewing her Defense Against the Dark Arts notes from the previous year, when they'd had a very nervous professor who she assumed had been scared off.  
  
Their second class was now.   
  
A very normal-looking man in grey robes strode up to the front of the classroom, leaning forward as he walked. He was *exceedingly* normal-looking: it was as if a survey had been put out for the whole of Britain, and a man had been constructed using all the averages. Facial features, hair length, height, everything. Hermione wouldn't have given him the time of day had she seen him on the street, except for the way he carried himself: a little intently, as if he was going to tip over any moment if he didn't push himself forward.  
  
The professor hiccuped when he stopped walking, then clutched at his head. The group before him quieted. "Good morning," he said, a bit quietly, squinting at his students. Then, removing his hand from his temple and swaying a little, he said with a bit more power, "Good morning. Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts. I am Professor Pinebrow. There will be as little noise as possible in class today. Any questions? Good," he said, not pausing for questions. "Please take out your books."  
  
Seamus Finnegan's hand rose as the rest of the students fumbled for their books as silently as possible, a few even whispering silencing charms at their bags. When the professor didn't seem to notice Seamus, sinking down into the chair behind his desk, Seamus coughed a little into his other hand. Professor Pinebrow winced, looking up to see what the disturbance was.  
  
"Uh, sir," said Seamus, unsure of whether to be quiet or not when asking his question. "If I may ask--er--where were you the day before yesterday?"  
  
Professor Pinebrow scanned the classroom. The rest of the students were nodding, wishing to hear the answer. The professor coughed. "Personal business," he said, then waved a dismissive hand at them. "Open your books and copy something down, will you? Twenty points to Gryffindor if you can get through the rest of the class without making another sound." With that, he slumped down over his desk, head on his arms.  
  
Hermione looked to see how her classmates were responding to this. She was sitting at the desk next to Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, who had almost immediately begun passing notes back and forth. Drawing out a piece of parchment, Hermione scribbled ~What do you make of this?~ and, crumpling it into a ball, levitated it over to their table. Lavender noticed it by her elbow, looked almost angrily at Hermione, and then the two girls opened it together, reading the words within. For a few minutes they wrote briskly back and forth on their own parchment, then they nodded at one another in unison, and dropped Hermione's parchment on the floor.  
  
Stunned, Hermione turned back to the rest of the class, to see if the exchange had been witnessed. Only Neville was looking at her, with a look approaching pity. Then, thoroughly disgusted, Hermione opened her book and started taking notes.  
  
*********  
  
"You look distracted." Hermione jumped at the observation. She had, in fact, been so distracted that she hadn't heard Malfoy slide into the seat next to her. For the past thirty seconds she'd been staring, unseeing, at her unopened Potions book.  
  
"Have you had Professor Pinebrow yet?"  
  
"Who?" Malfoy plopped down his books.  
  
"The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."  
  
"Oh, is that his name? We had him yesterday. He wouldn't wake up. I know," he smiled, "because my class tried *everything* they could to wake him."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Nursey rhymes at full volume, for starters," he said, and Hermione began to smile. "Have you ever heard *Zabini* saying 'Little Miss Muffet'?" Malfoy mock-shuddered. "*That* can suck all the joy out of a room."  
  
A picture formed in Hermione's head, and she gave a snort of surprised laughter. "I could just picture that," she said, continuing to do so, which only made her laugh some more. It was almost as if Harry or Ron were sitting next to her, saying what they usually...she sobered. "Malfoy," she began, meaning to ask him something important.  
  
"'Draco,'" he interjected before she could finish.  
  
"What?"  
  
"'Malfoy' 's what you'd call an enemy." He looked into her eyes intensely, and finally Hermione had to break away shyly.  
  
_Oh, are we friends, then?_ she asked inwardly, jumping back into defining their relationship. "All right," said Hermione carefully, looking up at him again. "Draco," she started, the name tasting strange and unfamiliar on her tongue. _Think of it as meeting a new person...well, it sort of *is.*_ "Why have you--"  
  
"Class, come to order, please!" Snape stalked into the classroom, black robes swirling around him as if he was a large bat. The room hushed. "As I informed you on Monday," he peered around the room, obviously displeased at the lowered amount of Slytherins, "we will be doing several long-term projects this year. We will begin the first of them today. You may have to come to this classroom at any hour of the night or day to adjust the temperature on your potion, or to add new ingredients, in which case you shall get a pass from me beforehand. If you *fail* to get a pass from me, then you will not be excused from the consequences of coming down here at a different hour.  
  
"For this project you will be creating a befuddling brew. Contrary to its name, once a befuddling brew's effects are felt, it makes a person lose all inhibition for a short period of time. Mere skin contact with the befuddling brew can have an effect on a person, however, so I recommend that once the potion nears completion, you all wear gloves.  
  
"Some of your ingredients will come from my office, and are to be handled delicately at all times. These ingredients are as follows..."  
  
Hermione bent to her work, copying each ingredient studiously, even though she'd already sped through this year's curriculum before coming back to school. Realizing now that what she had been about to ask Draco ("Why have you been being so nice to me?") was unnecessarily harsh, she focused on keeping her mouth shut. But then Draco himself leaned over and asked her, "What were you going to ask?" as softly as he could. It still echoed around the dungeon. Hermione winced.  
  
"Let's talk about this later," she said.  
  
"Oh. All right."  
  
"...So we can begin--*Miss* Granger, *Mister* Malfoy," Snape said, warning them, "--if you will just take out your cauldron and preliminary ingredients. The potion is on page 367 of your books." Snape turned in a flash of robes to sit down at his desk, as the rest of the room stood up and made its way to the supply cabinets.  
  
  
  
*********  
  
"Hullo, Penny," greeted Hermione brightly, shifting her large load of books.  
  
"Good evening, Hermione," the woman in white shifted sympathetically in her portrait. "Do your teachers assign *that* much homework?" Her eyes fell on the leather-bound texts in Hermione's arms.  
  
"Oh, no!" Hermione laughed. "This is just for fun."  
  
"You're going to read those all *tonight*?"  
  
"No," said Hermione, still chuckling. "Just this one." Holding up the copy of _Magellan's *real* circumnavigation of the globe,_ she then gestured at the rest of her burden. "These are for me to look up anything I don't understand."  
  
Penny's eyes widened. "But how are you going to find the time to plan for the holidays?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"You know...the festivities?"  
  
"Oh! I completely forgot about those, with all the...schoolwork..." Hermione had been tempted to say 'all the confusion with Draco,' but decided against it.  
  
"Well, I'm not big on All Hallows Eve," said the woman in white, grimacing a bit. "Christmas is my holiday."  
  
"I really better talk to Mal--Draco about that...right now," mumbled Hermione, almost to herself, thinking aloud. "I guess I better go inside, Penny," she said a little more loudly.  
  
With a sigh as if she'd wanted to carry the conversation on all day (which she probably did), Penny swung the portrait open. Entering her combination quickly, Hermione walked briskly inside and dumped her books down on the armchair, then turned to Malfoy, who was sitting on the couch, deep in his homework.  
  
"We have to plan," said Hermione, crooking an eyebrow at him.  
  
It started out with a great many uncomfortable pauses, as they wracked their brains for good ideas. But eventually Draco's homework was shoved to the side, Hermione's books dumped to the floor and forgotten, and an awkward conversation evolved into a rapid-fire brainstorming session, complete with notions of turning teachers into newts (an offer turned down by Hermione, although she did seem tempted when it came to Snape), having a masquerade ball (rejected by Draco because it seemed too corny), and punctuated by the occasional shriek of wild laughter. Hermione felt herself growing more and more accustomed to speaking with Draco, simply because, once they got into it, he acted like they had always been friends.  
  
The conversation climaxed with an idea so positively evil, so wondrously nefarious that Draco wondered aloud why Hermione didn't wind up a Slytherin, causing Hermione to retort with an "I was certainly inspired by one." After wrapping up most of the details, the laughter died down to a few mild chuckles, and Hermione quite suddenly remembered what she'd wanted to ask her roommate.  
  
"I've been meaning to ask you," she said, pulling the note from her pocket. "This fell out of your bag, and I read it before...um...the hospital wing--and I wanted to know...well, I mean...I don't understand the last one."  
  
*********  
  
A/N: I'm so wonderfully evil I could kiss myself full on the lips! Except that's physically impossible! So I won't!   
  
I love cliffhangers, don't you?  
  
A million points to your house if you can guess from which word I've derived Professor Pinebrow's name. Please specify your house, of course.  
  
Anyway, this chapter took a really long time to write because I couldn't figure out a way to make the plot got the way I wanted to...never mind. I just hope you enjoyed it, is all.   
  
Updates will become more frequent after this weekend. 


	8. Relapse

Disclaimer: I don't own this. Never have, never will.  
  
A/N: I know I took awhile, so this chapter's extra-long.  
  
You broke the 40-review mark! I love you guys!  
  
*********  
  
Hermione held out the note and Draco took it, making a sound as if to say 'Oh, yeah, I remember this.' The air seemed suddenly so thick and tense that briefly Hermione wondered if Penny was sleeping through this, or perhaps listening in.  
  
Clearing her suddenly-dry throat, Hermione asked, "What was the comment?"  
  
There was a pause, and he stared at the scratched-out portion of the text. "...It said 'What an awful family name. And who wants to be named after the stars, anyway?'" Draco spat bitterly, reluctant to tear his eyes from the note.  
  
"Why was it crossed-" began Hermione before she could stop herself.  
  
"I don't want to talk about it, okay?" he snapped, standing up and stalking off to his room stiffly. Hermione was left alone with her thoughts and the crackling of the fire.  
  
_He's named after the stars? Oh! The *constellation.* But I always thought..._ She looked up at the closed door, puzzled. _And he hates his family name?_ Changing gears, she thought, _Why did he have to be so sharp about it? I know I was prying, but if we're going to get along, then..._ Hermione found herself staring at the little crumpled piece of parchment on the floor, and wondering if her note to Lavender and Parvati was still on the stones in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.  
  
_Why is everyone being so--_  
  
The sound of Draco's door clicking open drew her gaze upward. He peeked out apologetically. "Still friends?"  
  
A smile rushed across her face. "Yeah. Still friends."  
  
*********  
  
They were sitting across from each other at the Slytherin table, and so, naturally, all the other Slytherins were clustered down at the other end, whispering. While not against the rules, it was certainly against *taboo* for a Gryffindor to sit there, but as a temporary solution to her house's avoidance, Hermione found it worked quite well. Malfoy was being downright chatty.  
  
"Why do you think they're all down there? Maybe we've got some kind of disease?" He smiled at her, winking over his scrambled eggs.  
  
Laughing, she said, "Just wait'll they see what we've got for Halloween!"  
  
Draco released a loud burst of laughter, causing all the Slytherins to stare at them for a half a second, then turn back to each other and whisper more fervently. The social pariahs just exchanged a quiet glance and chuckle and went back to eating.   
  
Hermione was marvelling at how easily she found it to converse with Malfoy, having only known him as friendly for a week or so. It was strange, but sort of comfortable already. "Do you think we should go down to Hogsmeade today?" It was a Saturday, and it only made sense.  
  
"Yeah, sure, we should start stocking up for Halloween. But how are we going to do the--?"  
  
"I'll have to head down to the library later. We'll figure something out. Besides, I already know the Phlogiston charm."  
  
"Is it possible to make that a different color?"  
  
"What did you have in mind?" Hermione grinned almost evilly.  
  
"Well, maybe a--" Draco was cut off by the arrival of the mail. A large eagle owl swooped down and landed right by his plate, but he was distracted by the spectacle down at the other end of the table. "Look," he said amusedly.  
  
Since the Slytherins (excepting Draco) were crammed into as little space as possible, there was no room left for the owls to land. As a consequence, there were owls standing in food, on the floor by the table, and a few were even perched embarrassedly on people's heads.  
  
Upon seeing this, Hermione snorted in a decidedly un-feminine way in the vicinity of her pancakes, shielding her face from the sight as if that could somehow stop it from being funny.  
  
"Hey, Ras," said Draco, tearing his gaze away from the opposite end of the table. The eagle owl stood regally on the table, seemingly oblivious to being surrounded by breakfast pastries and the like.  
  
"'Ras'?" asked Hermione, now pulling out a book. Books were serious business. They'd stop her from snickering nonstop for the rest of her meal.  
  
"Rasputin," Draco informed her shortly. "My dad named him." He continued, more kindly, "But don't hold that against him. Nothing today?" he addressed the owl, handing the animal a piece of toast. Rasputin took a modest nip of it, looked at the morsel offered scornfully, let Draco give him a pat on his wingfeathers, then took off again. The owl had swerve around a little oddly-shaped speck that appeared to be heading their way.  
  
"What's that?" asked Hermione about the speck, just as it grew slightly in size and something resembling a large feathery superball landed rather haphazardly in her pumpkin juice, knocking it over. "Oh! It's Pig!" Acting quickly, she fished the tiny owl from the spreading orange puddle, and counteracted the motion of the liquid with several napkins people had left lying after moving their place-settings.  
  
"'Pig'?" quoted Draco, in a way very reminiscent of Hermione's question a minute before.  
  
"R-Ron's owl," Hermione stuttered, suddenly reminded, once again, of where Ron was instead of here. Avoiding Draco's inquiring gaze, she bent to her new task of brushing the tiny owl's feathers free of pumpkin juice with a spare napkin. It was difficult, as he was squirming with all his tiny plucky might. "Pigwidgeon. Pig for short. There. What have you got?" Removing Pig's burden of an envelope, leaving the bird free to flutter over to Draco's plate and steal the rest of Rasputin's toast, Hermione saw a vaguely familiar handwriting on the thick paper.  
  
Unfolding the two sheets of paper, Hermione read:  
  
~Dear Hermione,  
  
How *are* you doing at Hogwarts this year?~ Now Hermione recognized the handwriting, with a smile, as Mrs. Weasley's. It had to be, with all that genuine cheer, even in the middle of a family crisis. Though for all she knew, Hermione reflected, the crisis had been resolved. Wouldn't it be grand if Ron came back to school? She dove back into the letter with hope.  
  
~I've heard through the grapevine that you're Head Girl. Good for you! I always knew you'd go far, never doubted you'd make it!~ All right, now the cheer seemed a bit false. And she *had* doubted that Hermione would make it...well, at least, she hadn't always been that friendly toward her. Pushing these thoughts aside, Hermione pressed onward.   
  
The bulk of the letter was merely updates on the Weasley clan: Ginny was doing splendidly as an Auror, everyone was so proud, Fred and George (thought scoundrels) were bringing in a fair income for themselves, and often stopped by with a new invention to show the family. Mr. Weasley had found a use for his collection of plugs when he discovered a portable generator and a cd player. Fortunately, he hadn't discovered cds, but Mrs. Weasley dreaded the day he figured it out. And Charlie and Bill were doing all right, though Bill still refused to cut his hair, and it was really getting very long...  
  
Then Hermione got to the part that made the bustle of the Great Hall fade. The writing was a bit jerky here, as if there had been many stops and starts, and there were a few inkblots where the quill had remained in one place for too long.  
  
~Anyway, darling, Ron's asked that we send you Pigwidgeon, always said you could use an owl.~ Hermione could just hear the hint of sadness creep into Mrs. Weasley's steadfastly jaunty patter. ~He wanted to send you his Chudley Cannons book, and his broom, too, but we wouldn't let him, dear, he could use those. He's sent gifts to all his other friends, too, but he wanted yours to be the most special, bless his heart.  
  
Much love, and *do* write back,  
  
Mrs. Weasley~  
  
That was it? But what did that *mean*? Sending gifts to all his friends? Was Ron sick? Dying? Hermione knew he'd been depressed, but--no, that couldn't be it. Could it? Staring blindly up at Pigwidgeon, she hung limply to the letter in her hand, and reached up to pet her new-old owl. He snapped at her, but she didn't notice. What was wrong with Ron?  
  
Across the table, Draco was thinking about what could possibly be going through the Head Girl's head. He'd spent the past fifteen minutes while she read her letter alternately staring abashedly at his plate and pushing his food around with his fork, and glancing up her to wonder what could be wrong. And now she was trying to pet the runt of an owl that had been eating his toast, and he realized that his breakfast was long since cold by now.  
  
"Hermione?" he asked softly, and she blinked out of her reverie. "I think breakfast is almost over." Indeed it was, Hermione confirmed, staring around numbly. Most of the school had drifted out already. "Do you want to get going?" _Do you want to tell me what's happening here?_ he implored silently.  
  
"Yes," she said, and for a brief moment he thought she was going to tell him what her letter was about. "Let's go." Standing up, she held out her finger to Pigwidgeon, and, putting on her business face (instead of that frighteningly lost look she'd been wearing), she told the owl, "You'd better stay with me for awhile. Those other owls will eat you alive."  
  
_Crookshanks might be a problem around him,_ she told herself, forcing her mind to think about something other than Ron. _I'll have to work something out._  
  
*********  
  
The air in Hogsmeade was brisk, so they decided to stop at the Three Broomsticks to warm up a bit before getting to shopping. They'd been allotted a budget by the Headmaster when they'd stopped in to ask permission for their outing. It had been declared by Hermione more than enough, and they'd been about to leave when Dumbledore had delivered a dire warning.  
  
"Not everyone was happy about the outcome of the war," he told them, face darkening. "Remember that. You were the ones who got away. Watch yourselves."  
  
Now they sat down at a table near the bar and watched Madame Rosmerta approach. "Are you two the Head Boy and Girl this year?"  
  
Both Hermione and Draco smiled and said "Yeah."  
  
"Well, I hope you two are planning something a little different this year. Usually when they get out here, it's just to buy pumpkins. Honestly, there's no creativity anymore."  
  
"Oh, what we're planning is different," said Draco, smiling conspiratorially at Hermione. She smiled right back. "You don't have to worry about that."  
  
"I'll expect you'll be wanting two butterbeers?"  
  
Again, they both smiled at her and said "Yeah." She bustled off, thinking to herself.  
  
Madame Rosmerta prided herself on the ability to place nearly every customer who walked into her establishment, and these two were obvious. _First date,_ she told herself, smiling and heading for the next table.  
  
"So where do you think we should go first?" asked Hermione.  
  
"Dunno. We need to get something to transfigure into a--"  
  
"Yeah, that should be easy enough. I need to go to the post office first, though."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Hey, um," Hermione shifted in her seat. "I wanted you to know that, um, my name should be on your list, too." Draco tensed. "It means 'earthy,' how awful is that?" She was really taking a risk, here. If Malfoy reverted to his old ways, she was bound to be called a Mudblood or some such thing, told that she was, in fact, earthy. But, no, he said,  
  
"Your name isn't so bad."  
  
"Oh," she said, a bit relieved. "Thanks. Um, aren't we supposed to be on the lookout?" Hermione suddenly remembered Dumbledore's warning, and looked around herself.  
  
"Yeah. See anyone suspicious?"   
  
Not many people were in the Three Broomsticks besides themselves. There were a couple of middle-aged wizards and witches having a brunch by the entrance, a pale woman with black hair sitting slumped over the bar, and...who was that? "What about that person?" Hermione was staring at someone nearly completely covered in a black cloak.  
  
"Doesn't seem too suspicious to me."  
  
"But he's looking at us."  
  
"What?"  
  
"See his eyes flash when he takes a sip?" It was true, every time he tilted his drink up to his face, a glimpse of his eyes could be seen. And he was staring at them.  
  
Madame Rosmerta took that opportunity to show up with their butterbeers. "Here you are. Anything else you need?"  
  
"There is, in fact," Draco thought he'd better be accomodating of his friend. 'Friend.' Wow. And she was worried, so he should do something about it. "Can you tell us who that is," he gestured to the dark man in the corner, "over there?"  
  
"Him? I don't know. But I wouldn't get too close to him. I've said it before, we'll welcome anyone at the Three Broomsticks, provided they ain't doing anything nasty, but...well, he looked like the sort who might do something nasty, if you know what I mean." Hermione looked worriedly at Draco. Rosmerta caught it. "But don't worry too much about it. At the worst, he's probably going to shoplift from Zonko's or something." Smiling at them, Rosmerta said, "Enjoy."  
  
"So what do you think of what we're doing in Muggle Studies?" Draco asked, to take her mind off her fear. It had wound up that Hermione's prediction had been right--all the Muggle Studies classes, having dwindled in size, had been combined. "Terry...who?"  
  
They'd been assigned a book that had been written by a Muggle author--about wizards. "Terry Pratchett. I...I, uh, haven't started yet."  
  
"You haven't *started*? We were assigned it *first class,*" said Draco, mock-incredulous and laughing inside. "I expected you to be *finished* by now!" He was building up now. "In fact, I thought you'd have already read it before *class* started!" Laughing, he turned to see Hermione's reaction and was surprised to find tears in her eyes. "Hey," he said after a minute, stunned. "I was only teasing."  
  
"So don't tease," choked Hermione, surprised to find her voice clogged with tears. Maybe she was sensitive because of the letter she'd gotten that morning. Maybe it was all her frustraction with her classmates building to a head. Maybe this was just reserves of grief over Harry's death. Or maybe she'd just been ready to trust Draco enough not to attack her like this. In any case, she stood up and walked out of the Three Broomsticks into the cold, leaving her butterbeer untouched.  
  
Draco was stunned. Okay, he'd gone too far, but he was *new* at this, and her reaction was a little much for a mere social blunder. He stood up, leaving some money on the table, and rushed out after her with some parting advice from Madame Rosmerta, "It's all right, just ask 'er out again and all will be forgiven!" Already too confused by Hermione's actions to puzzle over that, he resolved to be befuddled later, choosing instead to just find his friend.  
  
But when he got outside, she'd disappeared.  
  
*********  
  
  
  
A/N: Okay, still evil here.  
  
And now, a word from our sponsor, Pluggy McPluggerson! Take it, Pluggy!  
  
Pluggy: (_takes a deep breath_)  
  
That's right, folks, I want to plug a truly awesome fic, _No Longer An Enemy_ by Plaidlylush.   
  
Pluggy (_wanders off muttering_): Aw, shucks...  
  
Seriously, _No Longer An Enemy_ is wickedawesome, it's got romance comin' out the wazoo, as well as humor, and did I mention romance? Plaidlylush and I decided to plug each other's fics because we have some of the same ideas about Head Boys and Girls. Her fic's really sweet, and I recommend it highly (help! I'm addicted to _No Longer An Enemy_!) I love you, Deva!  
  
Since Lil' Fairy made an effort, Ravenclaw gets a half a million points. It's a plain old ordinary English word, to answer your question. But the million points still go to whoever can guess what word Professor Pinebrow's name is based on. Here's a hint: try pronouncing "Pinebrow" differently.  
  
I love you all!  
  
Reviews are begged for on bended knee. 


	9. Apologies

A/N: Yeah, okay, this took me awhile. I'm busy with NaNoWriMo right now (http://www.nanowrimo.org/--this is a program where you write a 50,000 word novel in a month. Wish me luck, huh?), but this chapter jumped up, grabbed my collar, threw me against the wall in a strangle-hold and *demanded* that I write it. Who was I to turn it down?  
  
Much love to this chapter's beta-reader, Deva, a.k.a. Plaidlylush.  
  
*********  
  
For a split-second, Draco panicked. Any number of things could have happened to his newfound and probably-lost-by-now friend--after all, they *had* been warned by the Headmaster himself. But then he spotted her in Gladrags Wizarding Wear, pretending to examine a dark brown cloak, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Darting around the building quickly to remain hidden from sight, Draco pondered his options.  
  
Option 1: go up and apologize. Bzzt! Wrong. Draco may have decided to make a fresh start in life, but he'd already determined to be himself, above all else. And while he may not have been certain what that self was, he knew for sure that he hadn't made a major gaffe in merely teasing her--something else had to be bothering Hermione.  
  
Option 2: go up and ask what was wrong. Ooh. Uncertain ground. What the new Draco knew about Hermione was very little, and what the old Draco knew about Hermione was that she had a very short temper where he was concerned. Prying into her personal affairs was not something a friend of less than a month did, unless they were invited to. And by her retreat, Draco could guess she wasn't ready to share.  
  
Option 3: give her some space. Ding ding ding! We have a winner!   
  
Peering around the building, into the shop window, Draco saw Hermione surreptitiously wipe away a tear as she sorted through a pile of black robes, and felt a twinge. He'd put that tear there. Some friend he was turning out to be.  
  
Then he spotted the man in the corner of the shop, hidden behind a rack of scarves, watching Hermione, and all tears were forgotten.   
  
  
  
*********  
  
Brown was not Hermione's color, so it was a good thing that purchasing the cloak she was looking at was the farthest thing from her mind at the moment.  
  
_Why did he have to go and do that?_ she asked herself for a long moment, and then she thought, _Why did I react that way?_ For Hermione was, above all else, someone who questioned her own actions, and, frankly, she wasn't making a great deal of sense right now. _He wasn't being that bad...in fact, he was so far from his previous standards that...ooh, I'm the one who's been bad, aren't I? Draco didn't say anything that Ron wouldn't have said..._   
  
And then she got it. Like *Ron.* He'd sounded exactly like Ron. The person for whom she had been worrying about that very morning. The person whose fate remained questionable in her eyes, she pondered, moving to a display case filled with piles of black robes. Mindlessly, she sifted through them. Would she ever go to classes with Ron again? Would he ever tease her about her study habits?  
  
Brushing away a tear from her eye, Hermione forced her brain to focus on the robes in front of her. Checking the size on one, she pulled it off the case, nodding her head to herself. This was the one. But it was best not to make any decisions without...Draco...  
  
...he was peering through the window at her. Then he ducked out of sight.  
  
Okay, that was just weird.  
  
Quickly, Hermione moved on to the next shop. After the bookstore she headed for the Post Office, and forgot that Draco had even come with her to Hogsmeade.  
  
"Hello, can I help you?" A slightly squeaky voice came from behind the counter. There did not appear to be an owner to the voice.  
  
"Um, yes," said Hermione uncertainly, drawing out the letter to her parents. "I need to send a letter. By Muggle post."  
  
"Oh, dear, oh, dear, that might be difficult," said the voice, squeaking on the second 'dear.' There was movement behind the counter, and several of the owls perched back there squawked in offense, right in a row, and then the opposite way as the movement came back. A larger envelope than Hermione's own appeared on the counter, along with a quill and a jar of ink. "Fill this out, please."  
  
"I'll need to do this once a week," Hermione informed the voice, filling out the form.   
  
"Oh, dear, oh, dear," it said, squeaking in the same manner as before.  
  
"I'm sorry. Will that be a problem?"  
  
"I suppose I'll be seeing you a lot." The barrier between the counter and the rest of the room lifted a few inches, and Hermione turned to address the owner of the voice. She stuck out her hand.  
  
"Hermione Granger. A pleasure." The woman standing before her was tiny, but perfectly-proportioned, and beautiful. Her features were delicate, but she gave off the distinct aura that she was, in fact, quite a strong person, who was used to being in command. She looked Hermione up and down unabashedly, pulling her glasses down her nose as she did so, as if appraising her.  
  
"Elinor Meadowflower. Call me Elinor, if you please," said the tiny woman in her slightly-higher-pitched-than-usual voice. "I'll assume by your attire that you attend Hogwarts?"  
  
Hermione was reminded, remarkably, of Professor McGonagall, for, although Elinor Meadowflower had none of the Professor's height, she certainly had the same commanding presence. "Yes. Yes, I do. I'm Head Girl. A Gryffindor," she provided unnecessarily, finding herself a bit unnerved that, although the woman was at least two feet shorter than herself, she could not talk down to her. _Not that I would *want* to,_ thought Hermione, scandalized.  
  
"I see. And this would be...?" she gestured to the letter. Hermione resumed filling out the envelope she'd been given.  
  
"A letter to my parents. Every week, they said."  
  
"Bit overprotective, are they?" asked Elinor sympathetically, and Hermione revised her opinion: she wasn't *that* much like Professor McGonagall. "I understand completely. My mother made me come *home* once a month, to make sure I wasn't getting too human."  
  
Smiling to herself, her suspicions confirmed, Hermione said, "Oh, so you *are* a--"  
  
"Half fairy," said Elinor, grinning. "And I suppose that's why they made *you* Head Girl."  
  
Finishing up the larger envelope, Hermione stuck her letter inside of it and sealed it, handing it over to Elinor. "Thanks."  
  
"No trouble," said Elinor. "And, uh, just so you don't have to visit every week," she said, winking, "I'll send Orly here along to pick up a letter from you." Here she gestured to a smallish common owl, which looked at Hermione with a friendly, if unsettling gaze.  
  
"Thank you. Thanks very much!" said Hermione, heading out once again. She really had to go and talk to Draco, apologize, she hadn't meant to be so harsh.  
  
"Stop by if you can find the time! I know it must be busy, being Head Girl."  
  
"I will try. Thank you!" Then the post office's door jingled shut behind her, and she was alone out in the chill air. Smiling slightly, she began to the walk down the street, hoping to find Draco *not* still following her, when suddenly--  
  
WHOOMPH!  
  
--she was flying-tackled by the very object of her thoughts and propelled into an alleyway.  
  
"Oof!" said Hermione.  
  
"Sorry," said Draco, a bit briskly, Hermione thought. At least he helped her up. "Someone's been following you."  
  
"Yes. You," replied Hermione, and now she was just a bit angry. All this weird behavior from him--how many friends had she known who spied on her when she was angry? *None.*  
  
"Look, *besides* me," he darted a look out into the street nervously, ignoring her growing ire. "That guy in the black cloak. He's gone to every store you've been to--"  
  
"So have you," she pointed out testily.  
  
"Yeah, I was following *him.*" He continued to peer out into the empty street.  
  
"And I suppose you don't trust him, *Malfoy.* That is just so typical." Brushing herself off, she snapped at him. At his surname, his head snapped away from the street and he looked back unnervingly into her eyes. "You're so paranoid."  
  
Instead of defending himself against her claims of 'paranoid,' as Draco knew he once would have done, he said: "*Please* call me Draco?"   
  
"Oh," said Hermione, melting at the sad puppy dog look on his face. "All right."  
  
"I'm really sorry about what happened before," babbled Draco immediately. "I just wasn't thinking, and I was trying to make a joke, and it was really stupid of me, and--"  
  
"I'm the one who should be sorry," said Hermione suddenly. "So stop being so guilty. Look, I know you're new at this," she continued, and Draco thought that she must have been a mind-reader, "and I'm new at being actually *friendly* to you, so I think we just need to forget about this whole accident. I overreacted. I'm--sensitive--today." _Sensitive?_ thought Draco. _About what?_ "Just don't worry about it."  
  
"Okay...if you say so..." said Draco cautiously. "But this man was following you, Hermione," he spouted, suddenly intense again. "He was with you in Gladrags, and then he went after you to--"  
  
"Yes, *all right.* Do you see him now?"  
  
"Um," Draco looked around, out of the alleyway to the street. There was no one out there. "No."  
  
"Then let's not worry about him. We have enough on our plate just trying to get ready for Halloween, so please, let's just...do that. I don't want to get into *any adventures* this year," said Hermione wearily. "I've had enough danger to last a lifetime, I think."  
  
The two emerged from the alley and headed back to Gladrags to prepare for the upcoming holiday.  
  
*********  
  
A/N: There we go. Things will begin to happen in this story soon, I promise. As of right now, I hope to have Halloween happen in chapter twelve. And I can tell you that *many* things happen between Halloween and Christmas.  
  
Reviews make me ditch my quarter-finished novel to write chapter ten... 


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